For You
by Spike's Willing Slave
Summary: My first slashy piece. Spike, Angel, love and the Shansu. Has spoilers for AtS 5.08 (Destiny). Rating is for language. Constructive feedback is adored.


For You

~+~

~*~ For Spike's Heart ~*~

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Disclaimers: Not mine. If they were, Spike would be treated a hell of a lot better.

Pairing: S/A

Rating: R, for language.

Spoilers: To Destiny 5.08.

Distribution: Want? Take. Just tell me where it's going.

A/N: My first foray into slash. This is a 'thank you' to Spike's Heart for fixing me up with some delish avatars. I hope you enjoy this! J 

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Angel yawned and rubbed his eyes, letting the book in his lap slide off onto the cushions of the leather sofa. It was late - actually, it was ten minutes past late and heading to 'why the hell am I still awake' - yet, here he sat, alone, in the vast library of Wolfram and Hart, surrounded by piles of Wesley's pride and joy. Books - master texts, codexes and liturgies on prophecies - brimming with clues and nebulous answers to the questions that sat heavy on Angel's heart.

" 'Dried up hunk of beef jerky my ass'," he muttered, gathering the wayward text back into his lap, feeling its weight against his thighs, solid and real, yet teasing - its pages filled with twisted imagery and veiled references, giving him no guidance or comfort. He played with the cover, debating whether or not to open it. He'd already read it five times tonight, and hadn't learned anything new. He rested his head on the back of the sofa and watched the flickering light from the fireplace jitter over the shelves, its orangey glow glinting off the polished wood and leather bookbindings.

He was tired. It was late. He should be in bed.

But he couldn't. _He_ was there.

__

And that's why you're here, he reminded himself. 

With a sigh, Angel settled deeper into the buttery leather of the sofa, and opened the book before him for the sixth time that night.

__

The Shansu Prophesy.

The answer had to be here. He needed it. Needed some assurance, some slip of proof, that the Shansu was his. Fuck the Cup of Perpetual Torment, the challenge and the reward. He had vainly counted on the Shansu being his, before Spike had arrived, before Spike had shown he was a contender for the dubious prize, before Spike had beaten him to the Cup…

…before Spike had made a place for himself in Angel's bed, had worked his way back into Angel's heart, his life and - by the mercy of whatever Power ruled their fates - hopefully, his future.

His eyes fell to the pages, the words now familiar but still mysterious, his brain working and re-working the phrases, teasing out new interpretations, re-hashing old theories, searching for something different, some alternate angle to approach the prophecy and crack it open, make it tell him what he needed to know.

"What're you still doin' down here?"

Angel blinked as the fluorescents buzzed to life overhead, obliterating the warm, dusky, fire-lit glow and bathing the room with harsh whiteness.

"Lights!" he growled.

"Sorry."

Spike flicked off the offending fixtures and hovered in the doorway. Always in black, he'd made his way to the library wrapped in Angel's silk robe, the obsidian depths of the fabric enhancing his alabaster complexion. That made Angel smile. His penthouse sat atop the Wolfram and Hart offices, but Spike paid no mind to the separation of home and work, rarely bothering to dress on his late night prowls through the building. The robe was at least three sizes too big for him, the cuffs hiding his delicate pale hands, the ties wrapped twice around his slender waist, still failing to cinch the rich material snugly to his body.

"Been waitin' on you awhile. You comin' up to bed or not?"

"Soon," Angel replied, shoving the text off his lap and between the sofa cushions, hopefully out of Spike's sight. "I just have a few things to finish up here first,"

"Anything I can help with?"

__

Shit, Angel thought. He didn't want Spike to know what he was up to… not after everything they'd been through, hashed out, promised each other…

"No, it's… nothing. Really."

Spike arched an eyebrow, a subtle gesture still not lost in the glowing of the firelight.

"It's nothing? Kept you down here for soddin' hours, but it's nothing? Care to try that again, Love?"

__

Fuck.

Spike slid through the doorway and headed towards the sidebar tucked into one of the bookcases. He poured himself a generous snifter of brandy. Tilting the bottle in Angel's direction, he made the silent offer, but Angel shook his head, no. Spike took a sip and made his way around the room. His hands brushed the leather spines of the tomes and texts, one long finger occasionally tilting a volume out, to look at the cover.

Angel watched Spike make his lazy circuit, knowing it was just his way of biding his time, working up, in his head, the right words to call Angel on his real reason for being here instead of in their bed, in Spike's arms. Where he wanted to be. 

Wanted so badly it hurt.

The line between old enemy and new lover had been crossed so easily. Angel couldn't deny that his feelings for Spike had always been intense, but things had started to change, after the challenge, after the Cup…

They had talked. _Really_ talked. Beaten and bruised, once the blood had been rinsed away and the wounds had started to close, he'd made his way to Spike and handed him one of Wesley's treasures ~ the Shansu translation. Spike had devoured the text, pinning Wesley down, asking question after question until the former Watcher had shared every last crumb of information, theory and rumour. Angel had waited for Spike to seek him out, to then crow to Angel - his foil, his opposition, his bane - that he had finally topped him, and would claim the prize as his own.

Spike never did.

When they'd come together, after that, it was with new understanding. Respect. Both had been re-evaluated in the eyes of the other. Angel had expected brash gloating, not the quiet nod Spike had given him as he returned the text. He'd expected a gleefully thrown punch to drive home Spike's potentially prophesized rebirth, and was stunned into silence at the gentle pat he'd received on the shoulder.

It had progressed from there. Shared comfort and understanding led to talking. Then touching - small contacts, fleeting, yet intimate, telegraphing more than their growing filiality - until one night, fresh from a random patrol, giddily slopping slime off one another's clothes, Spike's hand had brushed Angel's cheek. Eyes met, the laughter faded and Angel shook as Spike carefully placed a feathery kiss on his lips.

"Hel-lo? Are you there?"

Angel slid out of his reverie, the memory of their first kiss dissolving into the firelit landscape of the library. Effusive but powerful, the recollection of that moment, how Spike's lips had felt on his and how his hands had clutched at Angel's slime-dripping clothes, had started to make him hard. 

"What? Yeah, I'm with you."

Spike had made full circle of the room and was now sitting on the arm of the sofa.

"So… what excuse is next, then? Insomnia? Nightmares? I know the sting of those. Why're you down here in the wee hours? Can't be because I snore… "

"It's not… I just… I have things to do. Research and… "

"Got the Watcherly one for that. Try again."

Angel looked up at Spike. Streaks of yellow and orange light danced over his face as it was bathed in the flickering glow of the fire. All angles and shadows, this man - his lover - was beautiful. Carved-in-marble features - their perfection enough to make the Gods weep - reflected concern, love and a little bit of fear as Spike met his gaze. Blue eyes locked onto brown, trying silently to suss out the truth from Angel's stumbling subterfuge.

He couldn't do it. Couldn't lie to Spike. Not now, not after everything they'd gone through to get to this point - to be together, to share some affection, compassion and comfort. He needed that. Needed Spike. This would be hard. It might even hurt, but he had to tell him. And hope to Hell he could make Spike understand.

Tearing his eyes from Spike's questioning stare, Angel dug between the cushions and pulled out the text. Wordlessly, he handed it to Spike. And waited.

Spike didn't need to open it. He knew immediately what it was. Ever since Cinco, the text had been a near-permanent fixture on Angel's desk. Or coffee table… then at their bedside. That was when Spike had put a stop to it. 

His eyes roved the tooled leather cover, then shot over to Angel, who was sitting stock-still, eyes guiltily cast down at his shoes. With a shaking hand, Spike flung the book across the room and he sprang off the arm of the sofa. Angel winced as the book crashed into the sidebar, sending shards of crystal and fine liquor scattering all over the floor.

"You fucking Ponce!" Spike bellowed, looming over the darker vampire. "You _promised_! We… we _agreed_, for Christ's sake. It was over! We were done jumpin' for the mighty Powers and we were gonna do it _our way_! No reward, no dancin' for the Golden Carrot! Do the good, do the righteous fight… and then spit in their faces if the Powers came with their pat on the head! How… how could you… "

"You don't understand," Angel interrupted, finding the courage to look his lover in the eye. "Things are different now. There are reasons… "

"Fuck your reasons. You played me, _Angelus_," he spat, using that hated name like a knife. "Just like… like all the rest. Prolly had yourself a good laugh too, taking 'Love's Bitch' for a go 'round the track. I can't _believe_ I let myself trust you… "

Angel watched as Spike paced in front of the hearth, the dark silk shimmering in the firelight as it flowed around his furious, wounded love. Alarm flared in his brain as he caught the scent of blood; Spike had been treading on the broken bits of crystal, the shards slicing into his bare feet.

"Spike! Stop!" he shouted, launching himself from the sofa to Spike's side. Seizing him by the shoulders, he yanked him off the carpet of crystal and wrestled him to a nearby chair.

"Get the fuck off me," Spike growled, struggling to get away. One hard shove from Angel sent him deeper into the thick velvet of the winged chair.

"You know what your problem is?" Angel asked, tearing the hem off the silk robe and wrapping Spike's bleeding feet. "You don't listen. Never wanted to, _ever_. All you do is talk and talk and talk… "

"Listen? What for? So's you can spin new, fancier fables? Not likely. Not now and not ever again."

"Please. Give me a chance… Spike, you owe me that."

Spike snorted. "How you figure? Thought we were all done keepin' personal scores. Or was that another lie? What's left on your tally for 'Little Spike' to make amends for?"

"Nothing. You owe me… Fuck! Just shut up and listen!"

"Since you put it so nicely, go ahead. This should be good. I'll keep an eye out for that growin' nose."

Angel took a steadying breath. Funny how someone who didn't _need_ to breathe to live, was still calmed by the action. That was something he'd have to remember, if and when the Powers…

"I'm _waiting_," Spike snapped.

Angel looked into his mate's dark, blue gaze. "It's the prophecy. I'm still… it's still important. Even after our agreement, it's going to affect us… our lives… how we are…"

"Sod it," Spike mumbled. "This is the same old tune. You've got nothing new to tell me…"

"Would you please _shut up_ and let me finish?" he huffed. Spike went silent. Angel took a moment before continuing, knowing the next few words were going to hurt. He held tightly onto Spike's forearms, keeping him in place and steeling himself for what would come next.

"I want it, Spike. I _need_ it. To be human. To be… not what I am now."

Angel's hands had started to shake, but not from his anxiety. Spike had begun to tremble, his whole body quivering as he listened to Angel's confession.

"Bastard," Spike whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He kicked out with one damaged foot and knocked Angel onto his back. He shot out of the chair and headed towards the library door. Before he cleared the threshold, strong hands whirled him around, pinning him to the wall.

"I'm not done," Angel said, trying to ignore the ripe smell of his lover's blood as it soaked into the thick wool carpet.

"Heard enough," Spike retorted. "Go for it, mate. Be all you can be. 'bout time I fucked off from here anyways. You and your merry troupe have at it then. Fight your fight and I'll wander off to the far corners. You won't have to worry 'bout me snagging your prize. Have it, and I hope you choke on it."

"Rather choke on you," Angel quipped.

"What? God you're sick…"

Angel had to agree. Because, even now, with Spike upset and wounded, holding him there, pressed against the wall, the smell of Spike's blood in his nose, Angel could feel his cock start to harden again. Spike affected him like no other person ever had - not even Darla. The want, the need, the fight, the fuck and the love - the full package - was all in Spike.

Spike started to struggle, trying to get away. Angel went for broke.

"For you, okay?"

"What's for me, you git? That knob there? Wanna take me for one more go before I stumble off? Not like I usually let you top me, Angelus…"

"Stop calling me that! That's what I'm trying not to be… not anymore…"

Spike stilled. Waited. 

"No more Angelus," Angel whispered. "I can't go on with that threat hanging over my head… over you… over us…"

"I'm listening," Spike told him, softening some in Angel's desperate grip.

"Every night, every time we… I feel myself slipping closer, and closer to that…" He swallowed. This was going to be harder than he'd thought. "He talks to me, Spike. I can hear him, in my head. Taunting, threatening. With the next touch," Angel moved one hand to Spike's cheek, tracing the fine hollow with a gentle finger. 

"…the next kiss," His lips dropped tiny blessings over Spike's forehead, traveling down to his shuttered eyes, his cheek, to his lips. Home. Pure and sweet and lusty. Spike's mouth fluttered under Angel's kiss, tentative and shy, waiting to see if he could trust his lover's words, believe in them, feel them in his soul, respond to them in his heart as strongly as his body did to Angel's gentle attentions.

"… the next time I hold you close and feel you slide next to me, _into_ me… drives me nearer to the edge, to the brink… it's looming there, Spike…"

"Perfect happiness?"

The words tumbled from Spike's lips as his eyes filled with fear that Angel would laugh at his bold assumption. Him, giving Angel _that_? 

"You sound so surprised, Spike."

"Never heard it before. Nobody's ever… don't ever let myself think it could happen… "

"I want it, Spike. For you. I can't live with this curse, this fear that I'll lose it all… not now, that I - _we_ - have this…"

Spike tilted his face to Angel, shushing him with a kiss. Their lips melted together, Spike's tongue begging for an invitation into his lover's mouth. Angel parted his lips and curled his tongue around Spike's, drawing it in, pulling Spike closer until they were twined together, a shaking knot of lips and arms.

Spike drew back and took Angel's hand. Walking gingerly on his stinging feet, he led Angel around the crystal mess on the carpet and picked up the prophecy text. Making their way to the sofa, they settled against the soft leather, Angel resting his head on Spike's chest, the book splayed open across both their laps.

"Let's get to it, then," Spike said softly. "Let's make you my real boy."

~*END*~


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